The World's Only Adventuring Blogger
by ThePro-LifeCatholic
Summary: During a normal conversation, Sherlock discovers that he doesn't know the whole story about his blogging flat-mate. John Watson and Bilbo Baggins may have more in common than physical appearance...but how much will the Sherlock crew be able to take before they are driven to confused insanity? This story uses references from both The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings books.
1. An Unexpected Conversation

**I know...I know. I have a _bunch_ of other stories I need to be working on, right?**

 **Yes...but I'm experiencing writer's block. That is soooo frustrating. And besides, we had this stuff typed up weeks ago, so it wasn't like I wrote all of this on a whim this morning.**

 **This ficlet was inspired and devised by myself and my younger sister, who has helped me several times in the past with stories, such as _Tattles and Curtains - Get the Connection?_**

 **So I'm going to be posting all of the one-shots that we've come up with so far. Every. Single. One. Of. Them.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **God bless and have a great day (or night)!  
ThePro-LifeCatholic**

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 **Disclaimer: My sister and I don't own BBC Sherlock, nor do we own _The Hobbit_. If we did, the movies wouldn't have been such a disappointment. That, and you wouldn't be reading this. You'd be watching it. :)**

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"Are your parents very observant?"

Sherlock looked up from his cup of tea. The blogger and the consulting detective were relaxing in the flat at 221B Baker Street. Outside, a fine drizzle of rain streaked down the window-panes, dripping onto the grey street below.

"No…not quite as observant as Mycroft and I." The detective took a sip of the hot liquid. "But I believe it's a hereditary trait."

"Oh," was all John had to say.

"While we had to work hard to get our observational skills as fine-tuned as they are now, my brother and I have always possessed an innate knack for detection." Sherlock explained, setting the white tea cup down on the small glass plate. He brought his hands up to his chin, folding them together.

"Well, my ancestors probably didn't have that observational streak," John Watson piped up, "but some of them certainly had an appetite for adventure. You know, I come directly from the line of Bagginses myself."

Mr. Holmes had been lost in thought. Now he cracked open his eyes and glanced at his flat mate. "Who?"

"The Bagginses, a very respectable family back then, before the Age of Men," John supplied. Sherlock stared hard at Watson, trying to figure out if this was some joke.

"They were Hobbits," Dr. Watson finished, leaning back in his chair. Apparently thinking the conversation over, he picked up a newspaper and began reading it. Sherlock blinked, trying to formulate a proper comeback to the war doctor's newest statement.

"Wasn't that the movie you went to see yesterday with Mary?" the detective queried. John peered over the top of the paper.

"No. A Hobbit is a small…well…they're like little people, and they live in holes in the ground-"

"You went to see a movie called _The Hobbit_ last night with Mary, correct?" Sherlock ground out the words. It wasn't even 10 o'clock, and he already felt a bad mood coming.

"Yes, but not with Merry. He lives across Brandywine River, with the other Brandybucks," John responded, who was only partly paying attention to Sherlock's question.

Sherlock was getting very annoyed now. "Mary. Mary Watson. Mary, Mary!"

"'Course I married Mary," John scoffed, shaking his head. "She's my wife!"

Sherlock glared at John Watson for several seconds, emptying an imaginary revolver into his skull. Then he shot up from the chair, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"I'm going to call Lestrade about a case," he grumbled. John went back to his newspaper.

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 **Don't forget to leave a review and let us know what you think!**


	2. I Can't Believe it's not Butter!

**Really short, but that's how a lot of them came out.**

 **I really love this fic. You guys have no idea. My sister and I thought it was hilarious, how no one else had any clue whatsoever what John's going on about. Except John (maybe).**

 **God bless and have a great day (or night)!**

 **ThePro-LifeCatholic**

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 **Disclaimer: Didn't we clear this up in the last chapter?**

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 _The morning after this strange conversation…_

John Watson arrived at the flat early the next morning (but not too early, since Sherlock wasn't a morning person). He was excited to pick up where the case had left off the previous evening. Knowing Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective had probably stayed awake most of the night, organizing and re-organizing facts in his Mind Palace until he had been satisfied with the arrangement. No doubt Sherlock was already up and dressed, waiting for his former flat mate to turn up. Then off to the crime scene they'd go.

"Morning, John." Sherlock's deep voice sliced through the moment of silence. Just as Watson had thought, Sherlock was dressed and ready. Black, curly hair was ruffled, his coat collar turned up around the pale face. Sherlock was tying his signature blue scarf around his neck.

"How are you feeling this morning?" _That was what normal people said to each other in the early hours of the day, wasn't it?_ Sherlock (unfortunately, but rather obviously) had trouble when it came to cultural and social norms. Usually, he didn't even try. However, he figured there was no harm in attempting friendliness every once in a while.

The army doctor, instead of replying immediately, slowly made his way over to the window. He stared out into the street, watching pedestrians pass by below. He turned, looking right into Sherlock's eyes.

"I've been feeling sort of…thin, lately. Sort of stretched." John responded vaguely, his voice sounding far-off. "Like…butter, scraped over too much bread." He fell silent, focusing on some object just beyond Sherlock's head.

The consulting detective knotted his scarf. Without another word he moved to the door of the flat and stalked out. Whatever John's problem was, he could handle it himself.

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 **There's more where this came from. Just hold on a couple minutes.**


	3. Old Friends Reunited (sort of)

**Knowledge of the book _The Hobbit_ is required for this story.**

 **Beorn (for those who don't know) was a shape-changer. He could take the appearance of a man or a bear. He lent his ponies to Bilbo and the dwarves to aid them on their quest to the Lonely Mountain. No, he didn't appear in the movies, which is another reason why it was such a let-down for me personally.**

 **This chapter was (mostly) written by my younger sister Twix (she doesn't have an account here yet, so don't go looking for her). All credit goes to her (except for the last two paragraphs or something like that).**

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 **Disclaimer: We don't own BBC Sherlock, or _The Hobbit._ We also don't own _The Lord of the Rings_ , which was referenced in the chapter before this one.**

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Sherlock and John approached the crime scene (which was extremely easy to identify because of all the useless, idiotic people who called themselves "police officers" running around doing absolutely nothing. At all. Except running). Lestrade moved towards the two as he was hanging up his phone.

"Well, then," he greeted the detective and the doctor, "good morning."

Sherlock spun around and faced the DI,

"What do you mean?" he demanded, "Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or do you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on? Even if you did select one of those choices, I don't care. The appearance and condition of this morning has nothing to do with what I came here for and so it is unimportant."

Lestrade nodded and led the duo inside the building. The room that they were shown into had several deer heads mounted on the wall, and a bear-skin rug spread out on the floor.

The case itself was an interesting phenomenon. There seemed to have been a party and then, suddenly, five people had bailed out. Two men and three women had vanished that night. At least, according to Sally, that's what happened. Sherlock leaned close to the floor; the foot prints of the men were pressed deeper down into the carpet than the women's. However, judging by the strides, the men had been athletic. These were men who weren't over-weight; they each had been carrying something heavy: children. The detective grinned and moved on; there were shards of glass in one corner (probably one of the women had tried to stop her attacker and failed). Sherlock snatched one of the pieces up with a gloved hand and knelt down on the rug to examine it. After a while of looking at it he sniffed it and then, much to John's dismay, licked it.

"Cocaine." Sherlock announced before going back to work.

"All of them at once." John muttered.

"What?" Sherlock asked him.

"The 'good morning scenarios'," John explained, "the correct answer to your question is all of them at once."

Sherlock blinked; he had moved on entirely from that and had a bit of trouble recalling it to mind. When he did he simply groaned and rolled his eyes.

"Don't make commentary while I'm working, John. You've nothing intelligent to say anyway." Sherlock redirected his attention to his old flat-mate to see what his reaction would be. John was speechlessly staring at the bear-skin rug.

"Beorn!" The one word was torn from John's throat. The army doctor threw himself forward. The rug slipped across the floor as John made contact with it. Pieces of glass went flying in all directions, and Sherlock's forehead met the wall with an agonizing "crack".

Sherlock rolled on the ground, swearing and clutching his head. Sally bit back her laughter as Greg flashed several pictures on his phone. John, completely oblivious to what was going on around him, sniffled and cradled the soft brown fur in his arms.

"What have they done to you?! Oh, Beorn! You'll live forever in my memory!" Then John promptly burst into tears.

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 **This one is one of my favorites. :)**


	4. Early Retirement Plan(?)

**Another short one. Nothing much to say. Enjoy.**

 **God bless and have a great day (or night)!  
ThePro-LifeCatholic**

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 **Guess what we still don't own? BBC Sherlock, _The Hobbit,_ and _The Lord of the Rings._ Shocking, right?**

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Sherlock decided to send his flat-mate home. Have Mary put ice on his head or something.

It wasn't too long before Sherlock managed to successfully (and brilliantly) solve the case. Again. And a week had passed since John's…encounter with the bear-skin rug. Surely, he'd be ready to solve a mystery now.

At least, that's what Sherlock had assumed as he marched up to Mary and John's house. He rang the doorbell and stepped back, rocking on his heels, waiting for someone to answer the door. There was a "click" as the door was unlocked, and John Watson greeted the detective.

"Hi, Sherlock," he said, sounding and acting like his usual self.

"Hello, John," Sherlock replied. He examined his friend, taking in every detail (late lunch, just got back from biking and a shower). Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

"Care to join me on a case? Lestrade just called, and-"

"No!" John cut adamantly into Sherlock's sentence. "No; we'll not be having any adventures around here, thank you very much!" The army doctor backed into the house. "Good morning!" With this hasty farewell, John slammed the door in Sherlock's face.

"But it's…afternoon…" was all Sherlock could think to say.

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 **I feel so bad for Sherlock. He's just eternally confused in this fic. My, how the tables have turned...**


	5. The Eagle Whisperer

**This one was written by Twix (who still doesn't have a fanfiction account).**

 **All credit for this awesome one-shot goes to her. :)**

 **God bless and have a great day (or night)!**

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 **Disclaimer: You all know what I'm gonna say anyway. Why bother?**

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Gun shots filled the 7 AM morning air. Sherlock was pulled back behind a police car as another bullet whizzed past him. **  
**

"When I say 'get down' I mean 'get down'!" Lestrade snapped at the consulting detective. Sherlock glanced over at him but didn't say anything. John and Sally were crouching behind another car a few yards away.

Sherlock took a deep breath before he launched himself out in the open. A shout of surprise and worry came from Lestrade behind him. He dashed through the open space between the two cars and skidded to a halt, knocking John over.

"What the HECK do you think you're doing!?" John screamed. Sherlock caught his breath a bit before replying,

"Checking to see how many people we're up against. Back later." After this brief explanation, Sherlock once again jumped to his feet and scrambled across the open space between the two cars. When he hit the pavement again it was next to Lestrade.

"You have no idea how much I want to lock you in this car right now." The ID shouted over the sound of firearms. Sherlock continued to stare out through the windows of the vehicle.

"Six," he breathed, "Four boys, two girls. The girls are both white with brightly dyed hair. Two of the boys are white and the rest are black. One of the girls has a machine gun the rest have pistols. All of them are under 25 years of age. My guess is that the machine gun won't be brought out unless either they feel they have the upper hand or they run out of any other ammunition."

At that exact moment the window blew out and the sound of a machine gun filled the air. Sherlock and Lestrade ducked down and covered their heads. Glass sprayed everywhere.

"We need to distract them!" Lestrade exclaimed. He looked over at Sally and John who were firing at will in the direction of the enemy.

Sherlock dug around in his coat pocket and pulled out several objects. The DI's eyes bulged.

"How did you get a hold of tear gas?!" He demanded.

"It was an experiment." Sherlock answered, "If we can get them off guard for a short time, I can use the tear gas and then it's Christmas." The consulting detective called John on his phone and relayed the plan to him and Sally. "Now, we wait." Sherlock breathed.

"THE EAGLES ARE COMING!"

Both Lestrade and Sherlock whipped their heads around. John was standing far off to the right and doing some sort of made up dance,

"THE EAGLES! THE EAGLES!" John shouted in a singsong voice with his face upward.

All gunfire ceased. One glace towards Sally told the two detectives that she was as clueless as they were. Sherlock stood up and dashed a few strides (after jumping over the hood of the car) and threw the tear gas as hard and far as he could. He grinned; a perfect shot. There were a few shouts from the boys and several screams from the girls. Then all six came running towards them from out of the smoke. Of course they could hardly see anything so in the end they all collapsed and lay still.

It wasn't long until the arrest was over and Sherlock was forgiven for stealing tear gas. Eventually, Sherlock was standing with his arms crossed, watching the police cars drive away. He turned only to see John still standing with his face turned upward, as if he was waiting for something. Sherlock wandered over next to him and glanced up. Nothing was to be seen.

"You ready to go?" Sherlock asked his old flat-mate. John looked at Sherlock with an almost sad expression,

"The eagles…they've never let me down before…" John stared back up at the sky. Sherlock sighed and walked away, leaving the army doctor alone with his unhappy thoughts of betrayal.

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 **Sherlock's sort of done with John by now.**


	6. A Study in Poetry (and DESPAIR)

**Suddenly...a LONG CHAPTER APPEARS!**

 **Yeah...this one was written by me...not a surprise...**

 **This chapter uses a poem from _The Lord of the Rings._ It's actually in the book itself. I didn't make it up. I'm rubbish at poetry.**

 **God bless and have a great day (or night)!  
ThePro-LifeCatholic**

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 **Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock, or the poem used in this one-shot, or the book it came from.**

 **And you guys aren't even reading these anymore, are you? I mean, seriously, are you?**

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"There's _nothing_ to _doooo_!" Sherlock moaned. The consulting detective was spread out on the black leather couch, one arm nearly touching the floor, head tipped towards the ceiling. It was going on eleven o'clock and he still hadn't changed out of his pajamas.

"No murders, no kidnappings, no store robbery; Lestrade has _nothing_ for me!" Sherlock continued, his voice rising to a higher pitch than usual.

John Watson, sitting at the kitchen table, wasn't paying attention to his flat mate's complaints. He was busy writing something on a piece of paper (an activity which he had been focusing on for nearly an hour and a half now).

Sherlock waited several moments for a reaction from his one-man audience. When nothing happened, he curled himself into a tighter ball.

"BORED!" he exclaimed loudly.

The only response to this outburst was the scratching of pen on paper.

Sherlock sulked for about half a minute longer. Then he twisted his body so that he was partly on his side, facing towards the kitchen. He propped his head on his hand and gazed at Dr. Watson. After settling himself in this new posture, Sherlock let forth an exaggerated sigh.

With a flourish, John finished writing a word and flipped the paper over. He paused a moment, tapping the pen against his chin. Then he bent over the paper…and began writing again.

Sherlock looked sullenly at John, who still wasn't giving any indication of getting involved in the detective's brooding act. Finally, however, curiosity got the better of Mr. Holmes.

"What are you writing?" he asked from the couch.

"I'm…writing…a poem," John answered, not looking up from the paper. His brow was drawn together, wrinkles standing out on his forehead, his lips pursed. He recited several phrases under his breath.

Sherlock blinked. "You don't write poetry," he commented.

"Yes I do. When we're not solving a case, or if I'm not blogging, then I write poetry."

Sherlock considered this.

"D'you want to hear it?" John questioned.

"Hear what?"

"My poem."

"Oh." Sherlock thought over this request. It wasn't like he was doing anything at the moment. "Alright, fine." Perhaps he could even give John some critiques (or just mock him, which sounded more satisfying at the moment).

"OK." John cleared his throat. "Here we go:

" _Earendil was a mariner_

 _That tarried in Arvernien;_

 _He built a boat of timber felled_

 _In Nimbrethil to journey in;_

 _Her sails he wove of silver fair,_

 _Of silver were her lanterns made,_

 _Her prow was fashioned like a swan,_

 _And light upon her banners laid."_

John looked expectantly at Sherlock. "What do you think so far?"

"Wow…Umm…yeah. Yes, John, it was, uh, good." To be honest, Sherlock hadn't quite expected something so…mystical-sounding. It sounded like verses pulled from an ancient folk-tale. "Yes, quite good." He sat up, ruffling his hair. "Now, I'm going to see if Lestrade-"

"But it's not done yet," John interrupted. "There's still more of the poem." Without waiting for his flat-mate to intervene, Dr. Watson launched into the next stanza:

" _In panoply of ancient kings_

 _In chained rings he armoured him;_

 _His shining shield was scored with runes_

 _To ward all wounds and harm from him;_

 _His bow was made of dragon-horn,_

 _His arrows shorn of ebony…"_

"That's nice, John; brilliant." Sherlock tried to break into the poem. "But I've really got to-"

"… _Of silver was his habergeon,_

 _His scabbard of chalcedony;_

 _His sword of steel was valiant…"_

"I think I hear Mrs. Hudson calling you…or me…" Sherlock attempted (somewhat lamely). John didn't allow for a delay in his recitation.

"… _Of adamant his helmet tall,_

 _An eagle-plume upon his crest,_

 _Upon his breast an emerald._

 _Beneath the Moon and under star_

 _He wandered far from northern strands…"_

Sherlock was running out of polite ways to tell John to shut up.

"… _Bewildered on enchanted ways_

 _Beyond the days of mortal lands…"_

Seriously; how many words could John fit on one side of a piece of paper?! How small was his handwriting?!

"… _From gnashing of the Narrow Ice_

 _Where shadow lies on frozen hills,_

 _From nether heats and burning waste…"_

Sherlock picked up his phone and texted Mycroft.

 **Call me. Please. Right now.**

 **SH**

"… _He turned in haste, and roving still_

 _On starless waters far astray_

 _At last he came to Night of Naught,_

 _And passed, and never sight he saw…"_

The flow of John Watson's poem was brought to a crashing halt when Sherlock's cell phone rang. Grabbing it up, Sherlock brought it to his ear.

"Yes, who is this?"

"Sherlock, what's going on over there?" Mycroft Holmes queried. "Seconds ago I get a text from you begging me to call, and now-"

"Oh, Mycroft, it's you." Sherlock paused, nodding occasionally. His expression changed, going from annoyed and bored to nearly shocked. "A matter of international importance?"

Mycroft was confused now. "I'm sorry, did you say a 'matter of international importance'? What 'matter'? What are you getting at, Brother Mine?"

"No…that's impossible. Can't be." Sherlock was going all-out on this imaginary conversation. Judging by John's face, his flat-mate was just as lost as his older brother.

"What's impossible?" Mycroft was getting really aggravated now. "Tell me what you're doing. What's this phone call for, anyway? I'm busy, you know, which is more than what you can say for yourself. If this is just some prank to pass the time, then I'll have you know-"

"Ah, I see. Of course, Mycroft; complete confidentiality." Sherlock nodded his head, his expression solemn. He glanced over at John.

"If you wouldn't mind showing yourself out, John," Sherlock whispered past the phone. "I'm afraid that until I know more about this event, it's something that third parties (not including myself, of course) simply can't be informed about. You understand. Good bye." He grinned, then went back to the phone call, walking from the couch to his bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

John sat for several moments in disappointed (and slightly suspicious) silence before gathering his things and leaving the flat.

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 **You know Sherlock Holmes is desperate when he starts having fake conversations with his older brother.**


	7. Let me Sing the Song of my People

**There's more coming, you guys. My sister and I have a few more ideas floating around in our heads that need typing up, and more will probably come after that. We don't know how many we're gonna do before we call it quits, but we're definitely taking care of all the ones we've already thought of.**

 **If anyone out there can think of one of their favorite parts of _The Lord of the Rings_ or _The Hobbit_ , and would like to see that incorporated into this story, let us know! We're picky when it comes to choosing prompts, but even if we refuse one of yours, you can always come to us with a new one. And yes, you're allowed to give us more than one prompt. :)**

 **God bless and have a great day (or night)!  
**

 **ThePro-LifeCatholic**

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 **Disclaimer: I could say anything I want here. You guys aren't reading this. The Doctor and Sherlock would make a great bobsledding duo.**

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" _Far over the misty mountains cold,_

 _To dungeons deep and caverns old_

 _We must away 'ere break of day,_

 _To seek the pale, enchanted gold."_

John Watson was sitting in the dark quiet of the night. He was currently in his old flat at 221B Baker Street, and he was alone. The only light was supplied by the bright flames that flickered and crackled in the fireplace before him. The army doctor sucked in a deep breath and began chanting, low and soft:

" _The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,_

 _While hammers fell like ringing bells_

 _In places deep, where dark things sleep,_

 _In hollow halls beneath the fells."_

There was no noise except John's voice, rising and falling, and the snapping of the flames. He pulled his patchwork bathrobe closer to himself, shifting his position on the hard floor. He paused, running his tongue across his teeth, trying to remember how the next verse began.

" _For ancient king and elvish lord_

 _There many a gleaming golden hoard_

 _They shaped and wrought, and light they caught_

 _To hide in gems on hilt of sword._

" _On silver necklaces they strung_

 _The flowering stars, on crowns they hung_

 _The dragon-fire, in twisted-"_

"John."

A light was switched on. John started and blinked, shielding his face from the sudden brightness. He turned around to see Sherlock standing in the hallway to the bedroom, hand still resting on the light-switch. He had dark rings under his eyes, and the shadows cast by the fire were dancing across his tired face. Parts of his black hair stuck up crazily on his head, and his bathrobe was twisted and ruffled. The consulting detective glared at Dr. Watson.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "It's 3 AM. Go. Home."

John Watson stared at Sherlock for several moments longer. Then he scooped up his thirteen action figures (which had been set up all around the fireplace) and his radio and left the flat.

Sherlock turned off the light and went back to bed.

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 **Like I already said, we have more coming (sometime). In the meantime, feel free to leave us a review and let us know what you think!**


	8. An Apple a Day Keeps the Doctor Away

**For those who may not understand the reference in this chapter right off, this is based on the scene from** _ **LotR: The Fellowship of the Ring**_ **, when Pippin inquires about second breakfast. In response, Aragorn throws apples to the hungry Hobbits. However, even though Merry catches his with ease, Pippin ends up being hit in the head with his own fruit.**

 **This one was written by both my sister and me. Different sections are written by her, the others by me. Pretty straightforward.**

 **God bless and have a great day (or night)!  
ThePro-LifeCatholic**

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 **Disclaimer: We still don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the works written by J. R. R. Tolkien.**

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 **Jesuslovesmarina:** **Thanks for the awesome reviews! You made my sister and I very happy with them. And you're right about Beorn; he** _ **was**_ **in the 2** **nd** **Hobbit movie. However, I've only seen it once, so he slipped my mind. :P**

 **Also, we referenced your little blurb about Sherlock sending John back to his therapist in this chapter…it was too funny not to use. :)**

 **And the whole "bobsledding duo" was more of a joke on my part. I was trying to put emphasis on the fact that no one really reads the "disclaimers" by inserting a random thought into it. You turned it into something awesomely ridiculous in your review.**

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 _ThePro-LifeCatholic:_

It started when John Watson tried to leave his house one sunny morning.

Everything beforehand had been relatively normal. He woke up, cycled, came home, took a shower, and ate breakfast with his beautiful wife. A text from Sherlock alerted him about case developments. It seemed the consulting detective needed help from his blogger.

"Alright, Mary; I'm off to see what Sherlock wants now." John gave Mary a quick parting kiss, and opened the door of their house. As he stepped into the street, something round and hard grazed his shoulder. He turned to see a green apple bouncing down the street.

"That's…odd." He frowned, glancing at the sky and up and down the street. No one in sight…John Watson sighed and shook his head. Then he hurried to catch a passing cab.

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 _Twix:_

Sherlock tapped his fingers impatiently. How long did it take John Watson to get to 221B anyway? Sherlock paused as he heard a soft 'thud' from outside and a shout of surprise. The downstairs door opened and John showed himself in. Sherlock raised an eyebrow,

"What hit you?"

"What?" John asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Nevermind," he sighed. John had been acting very odd lately and sometimes the detective just found it better not to ask any questions (though he had often considered sending Watson back to his therapist). A knock on the door disrupted his thoughts, "That'll be Lestrade. I'll get it." Sherlock turned to open the door.

*thud*

Sherlock had just opened the door as an apple rolled across the floor and knocked into Lestrade's shoe. Holmes turned to his old flat-mate and raised an eyebrow. John was holding the side of his head and muttering in pain. Sherlock turned and walked over to the open window; he glanced out but no one seemed to be acting as if they were responsible for throwing an apple through his window. So he just closed it.

"Okay then." Lestrade said, "Are you coming to the crime scene or what?"

Sherlock glanced at John once more and then turned to Lestrade, "Yes, we'll be there shortly."

Lestrade simply nodded and (after picking up the apple) left the room. John watched Sherlock leave to get his coat before looking up at the ceiling,

" _Seriously, where were these apples coming from?"_

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 _ThePro-LifeCatholic:_

Sherlock peered through the small pane of glass as the black cab slowed to a halt in front of the crime scene. Blue and red sirens flashed, and yellow tape swayed in the wind. With a *click*, Sherlock swung open the door. Stepping out, he flashed a large smile in the direction of Sergeant Sally Donovan.

"Nice to see you, Sally," he greeted warmly, eyes flashing contempt. Sally caught the underlying layer of sarcasm in the greeting.

"Hello to you too, Freak." She crossed her arms. "We've been waitin'."

"Have you?" Sherlock feigned apologetic concern. "How unfortunate for you."

"Ow!" The sudden noise came from the cab. John, getting out of the cab, had been hit squarely between the eyes by a plump, red apple. Sally's eyebrows lifted to her hairline.

"Where'd that come from?" she wanted to know. Her response was a loud sigh from Sherlock.

"How am I supposed to know?!" John exclaimed, picking up the apple. "It's been happening all day!"

"You were standing _behind_ me," Sherlock pointed out. " _I_ should've been hit."

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 _Twix:_

Sherlock had just finished explaining to Lestrade how absurdly simple the whole case was. Lestrade, on the other hand, was getting over a headache that he had received from Sherlock's lengthy deductions. John kept glancing around in fear because **every single room that happened to have a window was also every room that he got pelted by an apple**. Once or twice he had tried hiding behind Sherlock but that didn't work.

Sherlock pulled back on his gloves and stepped outside. Lestrade was repeating to himself some of the most important info he had received from Sherlock as he and Sally began to fill out some papers. John, however, hung back in the doorway; Sherlock glanced at him and then up at the sky,

"Are you coming John?" he asked. John glanced around,

"Are you sure that I'm not gonna be hit in the head with an apple?" John asked back. Sherlock raised an eyebrow,

"Come on, John. It's perfectly fine. Even if you did get hit it's not like it's anything new."

"Yeah? You try it sometime." John muttered but he cautiously stepped out into the open air and braced himself. Nothing happened. With a sigh of relief John looked up just to be sure. Sally rolled her eyes,

"What are you expecting? To be rained on by apples whenever you go anywhere?"

As if on queue, apples came thundering down from seemingly nowhere. The unfortunate cab driver that Sherlock had just signaled covered his head and ducked down. Police officers darted away from the army doctor. John cried out in surprise and was now attempting to cover his head with his coat, which wasn't doing much good. Sherlock's dead-pan face was accompanied by Lestrade's phone as he flashed a few pictures of the unfortunate target. John ran around Sherlock a couple times before charging down the sidewalk. People left and right screamed and scrambled to get across the street. Sally stood with her mouth open as she watched John disappear down the street. Sherlock bent over and picked up one of the many round fruits.

"How come they didn't hit any of us?" Sally asked. Sherlock looked at her as he pocketed the object,

"I'm going home. And then I'm going to call John's therapist. And then I'm going to make a fruit salad consisting of only apples." The consulting detective turned and was gone.

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 **So…yeah. Enjoy!**


	9. A Light in the Darkness

**Lalalalala…doin' stuff...Actually, not so much. I've been experiencing writer's block, which is never a good thing. It's very extremely aggravating. I decided that trying to update one of my prompt-fics would be a good idea to get creative juices flowing again.**

 **So here you guys go: a new update to this crazy story.**

 **This one-shot will have a reference to Sting, which is the sword that Bilbo obtains in** _ **The Hobbit**_ **, and which is passed onto Frodo in** _ **The Lord of the Rings**_ **.**

 **Also, in a past chapter, I made the mistake of saying that Beorn didn't appear in** _ **The Hobbit**_ **movies. He appeared in the second one, but it was for a very short time, and he was one of the many disappointments in it (for me, anyway). He just didn't look like how I imagined him when reading the book, which is always something disappointing.**

 **God bless and have a great day (or night)!  
ThePro-LifeCatholic**

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 **Jesuslovesmarina:** **No need to apologize for your reviews! It's reviews like yours that make my day, as well as my sister's! They were great, and we may use more of your ramblings in future chapters. :P**

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 **Disclaimer:** **I know you guys might not know this, but…well…I don't own BBC Sherlock, or any of the works by J. R. R. Tolkien. *gasping and screaming ensues***

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"'He's getting away, Lestrade! We have to go after him, Gabe!'" DI Lestrade's voice echoed in the dark. "That's what you said. And 'Gabe' isn't even close to my real name!"

"Well, how was I supposed to know that your flashlights needed new batteries?" Sherlock sounded annoyed, but no one could see his face to really tell his mood. It was pitch black where they were; in fact, it was pitch black for quite a ways in all directions.

Lestrade, Sally, Anderson, Sherlock, and John were in the sewer system beneath the streets of London. And their torches had all run out of batteries. The consulting detective and his flat-mate had been hot on the trail of an escaping criminal. Scotland Yard members had been alerted to the situation, and had set up barriers to close off all escape routes. However, none of them had taken into account the maze of tunnels directly under their feet, which is where the wanted man ended up going.

So here they were, swathed in black, liquid dripping from the ceiling and their breathing penetrating the breaks in their conversations.

"Thanks, Freak," Sally accused from…somewhere. "Now 'cause of you, we're stuck down here."

"Did I ask you to follow me?" Sherlock's deep voice echoed throughout the tunnel, bouncing off the walls and fading into nothingness.

"Alright, you guys," Lestrade ordered. "Settle down. Fighting isn't going to fix our situation."

"Then what is?" the army doctor questioned. No one had a ready answer for John, so a muffled quiet settled among them.

Everyone jumped when Sherlock's deep voice suddenly broke through the silence. "Boo."

Anderson shrieked loudly from somewhere in the dark.

"My gosh…!" John exclaimed. "Sherlock!"

"Stop it! That wasn't funny!" admonished Sergeant Donovan. Sherlock, ignoring Sally's most recent statement, was chuckling. It sounded rather ominous, coming from an unseen source and rocketing off the walls and floor.

"You know, if I knew that I was standing next to you, and not next to Lestrade or anyone else," Anderson threatened in a shaky voice, "I would punch you, Sherlock."

"Well, I would attempt to punch you regardless of whether or not I may be hitting someone else," Sherlock replied nonchalantly.

"Hey, guys?" John called attention to himself. In the black, everyone tried to locate the sound of his voice. "I think I've got something that might help."

A moment later, an eerie, blue glow emanated from one side of tunnel, and the small group of people could make out each other's faces. John stepped forward, holding a long, thin object in both hands. The blue light surrounded it in a haze, dispelling the immediate darkness in all directions.

"Alright, tell me where to go," John called. "I'll lead the way."

"Nice torch, John," Lestrade commented.

"Oh, it's not a torch," Dr. Watson corrected the DI. "It's a sword."

The four people behind him exchanged confused, blue expressions. John Watson came to an abrupt halt, staring at the object in his hands.

"It's glowing blue," he murmured. "Which can only mean…orks!"

Without warning, John Watson leaped ahead, running as fast as he could.

"John!" Sherlock yelled.

"Wait!" Sally screeched.

It was too late. John rounded a bend, and the tunnel was plunged in darkness yet again.

"Is he coming back?" Anderson wanted to know.

"He better," Sherlock hissed.


	10. Mild Cane-Mania

**I come back from the dead to post another one-shot. I love this story so much you guys; I wish I could get more inspiration (or maybe it's just that I need more time…it's one of those. Possibly both).**

 **Anyhoo, this is based off of that scene in** _ **The Fellowship of the Ring**_ **(also in the book) when Frodo is showing Bilbo the Ring at Rivendell, and Bilbo sort of goes all Gollum on his heir. Hope that clears things up somewhat…**

 **God bless and have a great day (or night)!  
ThePro-LifeCatholic**

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 **I don't own the rights to BBC Sherlock or** _ **The Lord of the Rings**_ **series (either the books or the film adaptations). What I really wish I owned was enough time to actually write everything that I want to write…but sadly, I don't see that happening anytime in the near future.**

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 **Quick little note: This one-shot was written by me (ThePro-LifeCatholic).**

 **I figured we should let you guys know who wrote each one-shot, since this story is being co-written by myself and my sister, SimmonsButterflys.**

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Mrs. Hudson had her moments of determined resolution. She would demand that her renters take responsibility for their own messes and clean up after themselves. Of course, by this, she usually just meant Sherlock. Today had been one of those days.

"I'm not your housekeeper, Sherlock!" had been the first words from the landlady's mouth that morning, and the day had only gone downhill from there. Later that same morning, when John Watson received a text message from his former flatmate, he had hurried over to 221B Baker Street as quickly as he could. What he hadn't expected was to find Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, standing in the middle of his flat with a feather duster in hand and a desperate look in his eyes.

"Can you help me tidy up the flat, John?" Sherlock asked meekly. If it had been anyone else, John would have thought it a plea for help. But, as everyone knew, Sherlock Holmes never begged. All the same, John agreed to assist Sherlock, and soon the two were busily clearing surfaces, rearranging furniture, and sweeping up the several inches of dust that had gathered on every object.

"I don't see why you need all these papers," John muttered, picking up a stack of old newspapers. He wrinkled his nose and fought back a sneeze as dust wafted from the paper. Sherlock glanced up and reached over, snatching the papers and setting them on top of a growing pile of oddities.

"I may need them," he answered curtly, tossing a pillow behind him. John shook his head.

"They were _at least_ a decade old," he pointed out. Sherlock shrugged and retreated into the closet by the front door. Soon he was throwing random odds and ends onto the recently cleared floor. Dr. Watson sighed and moved into the kitchen. He frowned at the sight before him; Sherlock had obviously been in the middle of some complex and hazardous science experiment. As much as John wanted to clear it up and throw everything in the trash, he was reluctant to move anything in case of explosions. Better leave the kitchen area to Sherlock. A sudden cry from the detective sent John running to the front room.

"What?"

Sherlock kicked some boxes out of his way, brandishing a long metal pole. "I found your old cane. Don't know why I kept it."

John stared at the cane; a strange light sprang into his eyes as he moved closer to Sherlock.

"My old cane…" he murmured softly, a small smile twitching at the ends of his mouth. He reached towards it gently, almost endearingly. "…I should very much like…to see it again…one last time…" With a sudden movement, John Watson lunged towards Sherlock, arms outstretched. Sherlock jerked backwards. He could've sworn that John's eyes had grown to at least twice their original size, a wild, manic light gleaming inside them. His mouth opened wide, revealing rows of sharp fangs. His groping hands looked like clawed talons, snatching at the cane.

Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson was pulling a pan of freshly-backed biscuits out of the oven. She hummed softly to herself, wondering if Sherlock would be wanting any. No doubt he'd be hungry, especially after cleaning up his whole flat. He really wasn't _that_ messy, she mused to herself. No; he just waited a long time between cleanings, and he was a bit of a hoarder.

A strangled, very un-man-like scream sounded from a floor above, followed almost immediately by a loud *thunk*. Then a door opened and slammed shut, and footsteps pounded down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson wiped her hands on a dishtowel, mentally preparing herself to receive a disheveled flat-renter with complaints about that "curly-headed bloke" who was so prone to terrorizing the other people in 221B. The landlady certainly hadn't expected Sherlock himself to appear in the doorway to her kitchen a second later, panting for breath. He looked at her, wide-eyed, then glanced over his shoulder.

"Is something wrong, Dearie?" Mrs. Hudson asked, an aura of concern springing up around her. Sherlock didn't respond; he looked from her to the stairway. Within his mind palace, the poor detective was struggling against a cacophony of emotions, including shock, confusion, and disbelief. But how could he describe what he had just thought he'd seen?

"What the BLOODY HECK, SHERLOCK?!" John's voice sounded bewildered and angry. Very angry.

Instead of answering, Sherlock ducked out of the kitchen, tightening the knot of his scarf and turning up his coat collars. Mrs. Hudson followed him out.

"Where're you off to now, Sherlock?" she wanted to know.

"When John comes looking for me, don't tell him where I've gone," was Sherlock's reply. He flung open the door to the flat, stepping out into the London air. Turning on his heel, he marched briskly down the street, disappearing into an alley-way. As Mrs. Hudson looked on, John came down the stairs at a quick pace.

"Where'd he go?" the army doctor asked. Mrs. Hudson shrugged, and pointed outside…in the opposite direction Sherlock had gone in.

"I think I saw him go that way, Dear. Didn't tell me why he was leaving; he just up and left without any explanation!" She paused when she saw the black and purple mark on John's head. "What's happened to you?"

"Nothing too serious," John said dismissively. "At least, nothing worse than what Sherlock's gonna get when I catch him." Without another word, John Watson started down the street, peering down the side roads as he went.

Mrs. Hudson watched him a moment. Then with a reserved sigh and a head shake, she shut the door and went into the kitchen. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes; she'd never understand them.


End file.
